


Something Betazoid

by lori (zakhad)



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wild hare that struck me sometime in 2010. It was posted on my website, but not here. I suppose the muse wanted to take a ride through an alternate universe, where Troi and Picard connect in a new way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Betazoid

**Author's Note:**

> Some mild BDSM. This is not a Captain and Counselor story. These people bear a reasonable resemblance to but are not the same characters in that series.

 

Jean-Luc Picard thought he heard Troi say something as they headed for the secluded spot they had used as their transport site, out of sight of the native population. It interrupted his focus on getting back to the ship and getting out of the uncomfortable costumes they were wearing. He turned, thinking it might be something important, but as they stopped walking Troi only raised an eyebrow and regarded him with calm dark eyes that gave away nothing.

He thought she said something on the bridge, three weeks later. As he finished a short conversation with her about a recent communication from home -- for some reason, she listened to him talk about the vineyards and even asked a few intelligent questions to clarify what a technical term he used meant -- he turned to look at readouts, in the ever vigilant awareness of a captain maintaining the day to day relationship with his vessel. He could have sworn he heard whispered words, but had not been able to make them out. And when he looked at her again, she had shifted her gaze to the main viewer, hands folded in her lap, a faint pleasant smile in place as she watched the stars shifting. The Enterprise dropped out of warp, and at his order they traveled at impulse toward the planet, a blue marble in the lower half of the screen. Standard orbit, aye, sir.

A day later, as the initial thorough scan was completed from orbit, he thought he heard her say something as they concluded the briefing. Riker had gone ahead with Crusher, Data and LaForge; Avitz, the security chief, was on his way out the door heading for the bridge. Troi had lingered for some reason. Picard busied himself with the report from sciences providing details on flora and fauna, and the likelihood (or lack thereof) of any chance that microbial life would present a danger to the away teams. The planet seemed to be the perfect colony - life had progressed slightly beyond single celled organisms, but not by much. Terraforming would be relatively easy.

He heard the whisper clearly then, couldn't chalk it up to his imagination -- he couldn't make out the words but she'd said something. "Commander?" His head came up as she walked away toward the door.

She hesitated. "Sir?"

"Did you. . . say something?"

Frowning, she blinked and looked at the floor. "Sir?"

"I heard. . . ." But she blinked again and stared at him, and gave him reason to question his own sanity. "Never mind. Sorry."

"Is. . . everything all right, sir?"

"Quite."

When he heard the whisper on deck six that evening, in the corridor outside the holodeck as he was heading for another few hours as Dixon Hill, he whirled about.

And she was there. Out of uniform, as he was. Her hair down over her shoulders -- he'd never seen it like that, really, loose and falling in her face. The soft blue pants and blouse were nothing remarkable, just something comfortable, and he wondered where on the holodeck she might be heading.

"Good evening," he said.

She said nothing. Uncharacteristic of her -- she'd never shown any discomfort speaking to him, but he had the distinct impression she was embarrassed, though she didn't blush or turn away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said a moment ago?"

She raised her head slightly; her dark eyes acquired a steely, determined look. "I said. . . I love you, Jean-Luc. I'm in love with you."

His feet were welded to the deck. He rocked back, staring open-mouthed at her, and she didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't say another word. After a short eternity of waiting she turned on a heel and hurried away, nearly running around the corner, out of sight. Upset.

The next thing he knew, he was in his quarters, dropping Dixon's hat and cape on a chair. Numb.

In the morning, he sighed, stood up from the bed he hadn't gotten into, took off the suit, and put on a uniform. He ordered the usual from the replicator without really thinking about it. When Beverly arrived she did a double take, clearly taken aback by his appearance. "Jean-Luc. . . what's wrong?"

"I -- "

She came to her usual spot on the sofa, sitting down with him, ignoring the pot of coffee and cups waiting for them. "You haven't slept a wink."

"No. I -- "

Beverly regarded him solemnly, and it occurred to him that she and Deanna were close. What if she already knew?

"I can't talk about it," he said at last. At least she smiled benignly at it.

"Stating the obvious is the best you can do, I guess. Can you at least tell me if I should be worried?"

"I really don't know," he whispered. "I don't know if I should be. I can't understand. . . how I could have missed it."

"Missed. . . what?"

He tried to sort it out. How does one say to one woman what another -- well. Perhaps --

"How do you work with someone and manage not to notice when they -- if she -- how could I not have an inkling -- "

Beverly's blue eyes widened, and comprehension dawned. "All right, then. You're a typically dense career oriented Starfleet captain who's developed a level of comfort with his officers that led you to a false sense of intimacy with a couple of them. Of course you didn't notice. I'm sure she worked very hard to keep it to herself, because she's perfectly aware that you're incredibly unlikely to reciprocate."

"But -- why would she tell me, then?"

At least she didn't smile, or laugh, or do any of the things that would result in his wishing for an emergency beamout. "I would guess she has nothing to lose. Maybe she reached a point that she can't tolerate proximity any longer and arranged for a transfer."

"No," he blurted. "That's unacceptable."

"Then perhaps you need to develop the ability to talk to her about it?" Beverly did smile then, faintly, but not in an amused way. More of a sad, affectionate one, really. "If it's helpful, Jean-Luc. . . I did notice, and I did ask her. She denied anything was wrong and hasn't really spoken to me at all about it. She's never really said much to me about you, beyond the usual reports she needs to give me. But I've noticed there hasn't been a single counseling session with you since the last annual assessment. It's not that there were a lot of them before, when nothing trauma inducing happened, but none at all is unusual."

"I thought -- I believed that Will -- it just didn't occur to me. It was always someone else. . . ."

Beverly put a hand over his. "Jean-Luc. Look at me." When he did, she leaned and kissed his cheek. "Listen. I'm assigning you a task -- giving you an order, because I know you need something to help you break out of stasis. You need to shake off the shock, wake yourself up, and think about Deanna Troi. You need to decide if there is any real inclination in you to give it a try. I don't think you have enough of an idea of who she is beyond the counselor aboard your starship to really make a decision you can live with. You need to do this soon, because if you don't she's going to be snapped up by some other captain in need of a good counselor."

"Oh," he replied. Then, "Yes. You're quite correct."

"I'm going to go to sickbay. I'll have breakfast in my office. See you tomorrow morning -- maybe you'll be able to talk by then."

He watched her leave, making a note to thank her profusely for her efforts. He felt a little better already; less shocked, better able to approach it now that the situation had been made real by her awareness of it.

And then he found himself unable to approach it, again. It was easier to go to the bridge and let the ongoing survey of the planet continue around him, sit in the ready room, listen to Bach and sip tea. Easier to pretend that it didn't happen.

Except she never made an appearance. Her absence reminded him, and led to his query of her location around lunchtime. As he sometimes did when the mission at hand was mundane and could go on without his direct attention, he left the bridge.

She didn't respond to the annunciator immediately, and when the door to her quarters did finally open (and it occurred to him what he was doing -- she would know who he was without batting a neuron, of course, you thundering idiot) she was meticulously in uniform and came to attention at once.

"I think we -- come with me," he said, unable to sit still.

"Where are we going?"

Beverly was absolutely correct, and he hated himself suddenly. The counselor would not have asked. She would have obeyed, not questioned, even with such a calm tone of voice.

"I don't know. But I need -- it was unfair," he blurted, finding his footing suddenly. "Absolutely unfair. I had no idea -- not even a shred of an idea that there was the remotest possibility of -- you couldn't possibly have expected anything coherent in response!"

At that, Deanna's eyebrows twitched, but the warm smile he was so accustomed to, the one that accompanied him through the last decade in any and all situations, was notably absent. And he missed it sorely. "I really didn't expect anything at all. I simply couldn't. . . I'm sorry, Captain, I was trying to tell you, before. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, because I know that there's not really any way -- " She faltered then, her mouth open, nothing coming out. Almost as disconcerting as the loss of her smile, but understandable.

"You don't know that."

"I know," she whispered, turning away. Before she could retreat into her quarters he grabbed her arm. He let go immediately, appalled, but desperation and hope were driving him.

Hope?

"You forget that sometimes belief has more to do with how we feel -- that if, for instance, I were to develop the habit of believing my officers were content being nothing more than officers to me, I wouldn't even imagine anything else. Even if there were a fleeting thought or two, or a brief. . . attraction."

But it only made her angry. She glared at him -- when had she ever been angry at him before? Never. One piece at a time, his comfort zone was being dismantled along with his expectations.

"You can't do this, Deanna. At least talk to me -- I'm not saying you're wrong. Only that you aren't even trying to determine if you're right."

"You want me to believe that you might -- compromise, that if you have time, you can decide if I'm worth pursuing. As if I'm some different sort of career path, or a pastime you might find enjoyable for a while."

Picard checked himself. This was a challenge, and he had to be careful -- he knew his own tendency to respond to challenges with a sort of headlong abandon wouldn't suit the occasion.

"I haven't done anything more than recover from the shock -- you've completely uprooted my reality. I started to think about it just today. . . . It occurred to me that you would only have done this if you had decided to leave. And if you leave, I -- "

He put a hand on the door frame, trying hard not to leap forward or fall back, but to find middle ground. "I don't know you, do I? Not really. You know me more than I know you. You know me more intimately than -- but it's all been one-sided and professional. I give orders, you fall into step with the rest of the team, you listen and advise but it's never. . . . You never gave me any opportunity to see who you really are. So yes, you are giving up without trying at all. You dropped a revelation on me and ran. And if you keep running away I'll never know you. I'll just be left wondering -- "

A tear spilled over and ran down her cheek. She didn't look any less angry, but she did seem to deflate a little. "Do you have any idea what it's like to know exactly how someone feels?"

"How would I -- yes. Yes, I do."

It interrupted her anger for a few seconds of surprise, then she slid into disbelief. "Really."

"Kes-Prytt. Everything she thought and felt. Somehow we examined the possibility and ended up being friends. Such that I was able to overcome my complete speechlessness over breakfast, when she ordered me to get off my ass and start to look at this and think about this because if I didn't you'd be gone and never even give me the chance to think about this."

And it nearly ruined everything, as her chin dropped and her back straightened. "You -- told -- "

"She already knew. Apparently she knows you better than I do. I never saw it."

"Oh -- " Deanna hovered with a mixture of shock and anger that he feared would end badly, but then she swallowed, and glanced down the corridor. "Come in."

She backed into her quarters, waving him in, and he followed. He'd been in her quarters once -- twice? -- before, card games, which they took turns hosting for a while before someone decided holodecks were better as the scenery could be anything on a whim.

"Someone was coming our way," she explained as the door closed.

"At least you're not so angry at me. . . wasn't at all certain you would let me survive, for a few seconds."

Deanna shook her head, and if her eyes weren't closed she'd probably be rolling them. "I don't believe you."

"You don't believe I wanted to talk about this? Why would I expect Counselor Troi to just throw that on the floor in front of me and run the other way, and NOT want to talk about it? Ten years ago you practically sat on me to get me to talk about how I feel, and now -- "

"All right! Sit! Talk!" She pointed at one of her chairs, an overstuffed beige monstrosity that he was reasonably certain he might not be able to navigate his way back out of. When he took one of the standard issue models near the table, she did roll her eyes.

"Coffee, thanks," he said.

She got it, placed it in front of him, paused, then went back to the replicator. A few taps on the panel and a steaming cup materialized; when she sat across the table, he caught a faint whiff of it. Orange pekoe. He'd seen her drink all kinds of things, but here in her quarters she drank tea? Not even Betazoid versions of tea. And when he sipped he realized that she had gotten the coffee exactly as he liked it.

"You're not leaving," he said.

Another eye roll. "You're ordering me not to leave? What about career advancement?"

"It wasn't an order, it was. . . a plea. I understand why you couldn't be my personal therapist any longer, even if. . . but this is the wrong reason for you to leave. A better posting, yes. A promotion -- I would bet you'd make an excellent captain, perhaps a diplomatic vessel or a -- " He was getting off task. "Don't leave because of me. No matter what."

Finally, finally, she smiled. But it dwindled rapidly. Responding to his internal responses to her, no doubt.

"I don't want to be the reason you stop smiling, either," he added.

"I've been trying to -- not feel as I do, for some time," she said, picking up her tea. "I suppose now that we are talking about -- around it, perhaps it will be easier to. . . maintain my composure and to live with the situation, however it develops."

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, or nearly holding it, until he exhaled in relief.

"Why are you so set on keeping me aboard? It won't be very comfortable for you, either, if. . . ."

"I don't care. I've suffered a lot of discomfort, I'm certain I can manage a little more. . . ." He decided to follow his own set of clues -- he'd had enough counseling to read the writing on his own wall, after all. "I suppose this is my way of telling myself that I want the chance to -- wait, don't yell yet."

She settled back in the chair she'd nearly jumped up out of, and he dropped his hand to the table again.

"I want the chance to see if I want to -- hell. I need to know who you are. I can't just -- I do feel enough for you that I would never allow you suffer, not if there's a possibility, and I really couldn't tell you there isn't one. This anger -- you've never been angry at me. And while it's not particularly pleasant, it makes me think -- "

She waited, and sighed.

"Impatience. I'm not used to that either."

Another smile, this one lingering for a while longer than the last. "I suppose you're right -- you don't know me so well."

"But that's quite all right. It could be. . . ."

"Fun." She tilted her head, eyeing him through her lashes, considering. "You don't think it would be difficult, if it. . . worked?"

"No."

Deanna's head-shaking double take made him smile. "You -- really?"

"I know the officer you are. I know you will be able to do anything you set your mind to."

She stared again, her eyes still glittering, but the anger had gone -- she seemed happy, hopeful, and then --

"Hell," he blurted as she turned away again. "What the hell?"

"I'm going to hate you forever if you give me false hope," she exclaimed haughtily.

"Oh for -- " He worked through the shock all over again at this. She sounded nothing like --

Was she actually smiling? He thought, though she still sat with crossed arms and posed like a petulant child, that she might be. Even though she still looked the other way, something about --

"Deanna. . . ."

She glanced at him and he knew she had to be kidding. She was smiling, but now seemed embarrassed.  "Well, it was a very poor desperate attempt at humor, anyway."

"I don't think you could hate anyone, really." Belatedly, he realized how very difficult it must be for her, if she had made such a poor attempt to lighten the mood. "Would you like to do something else? Go for a walk?"

She snorted. "That sounds rather pedestrian."

"Oohhhh, I walked into that," he said, unable to dampen the amused grin.

And the sun broke through the clouds -- she laughed, leaning back, almost knocking her tea over.  Deanna put an elbow on the table and pressed her forehead into her palm. "Where did you have in mind?" she asked at length, turning to face him again.

"I've always wanted to hike the Forge in summer."

"The. . . what?"

"On Vulcan." He paused. Neither one of them was doing very well with humor, it seemed. "Well. Maybe not. Where would you take me, if we went to Betazed and I wanted to see some of the sights?"

"I know you appreciate archeological endeavors - there are plenty of those." She gazed into her tea.

"Not for a simple walk. Surely there's somewhere. . . why do you look so -- "

"It's not you, really," she said after a moment of sad contemplation. "I don't think I would take you to Betazed. Not now, anyway. If we used a holodeck simulation from before the war, it would make me homesick, and if we used an accurately rendered version. . . ."

"I should have realized. I'm sorry."

"We could go somewhere else." She thought for a moment. "Deck 24?"

"I suppose that would do, wouldn't it?"

Recycling the cups and heading out the door felt normal, as did walking down the corridor chatting about the mission -- she asked how it was progressing, and by the time they reached deck 20 riding in the lift he'd summarized the reports. Somewhere along the way, he remembered she'd been in the same briefing he'd just been through yesterday, and supposed that this must be her attempt to give them something else to talk about. Which led him to wonder how often she had done similar things, over the years, letting other people babble about things she already knew.

"I think it'll make an excellent location for a new colony. Very scenic as well -- there are a number of large systems of waterways, kilometers of forested mountainous regions -- a lot of potential here."

"Maybe we should take a walk there," she replied, sounding more like Commander Troi. Cheerful and supportive.

"I thought about going down tomorrow myself. I don't see why you couldn't come along."

The lift doors opened on deck 24, and they stepped out into an empty corridor at half illumination. She hesitated, uncertain.

"Geordi keeps the lower decks at half to save resources," he explained. "Hardly anyone comes down here."

"I know. I come down here often." She strolled with him, hands behind her back. "I was trying to sort out whether the people I sensed were on this deck or the one above."

"Often?"

She nodded. "I like solitude when I'm trying to sort out my feelings."

"Understandable."

They rounded the first corner. She walked closer to him, sleeves brushing.

"How are you?" she asked.

He almost responded automatically to it, but something in her quiet manner gave him pause.

"I've had to really encourage Will to take the opportunity," he said. "I think if he doesn't take command now, he won't get it at all. I've been worried about Geordi and Data as well. And -- what? What is that look about?"

"You're worried about your officers. I asked about you?"

"I worry about that, too. I'm tired, Dee." He paused. He'd never called her that before, never heard anyone call her that, but she didn't seem to mind it.

"That may have something to do with not sleeping last night."

Picard did a perfect about-face and stopped himself. Calming himself, he slowly turned to find her standing with her hands over her face. "No, you're quite right. I did not sleep a wink last night. I am indeed tired as hell and not really liking myself for reacting that way. It was probably fairly obvious to you, and if you were aware that I didn't sleep at all, it would seem that you suffered the same?"

She moaned and turned away, dropping her hands to her sides. "I'm sorry."

"It might have been better to let you have a nap." And, slowly, it sank in. "Which you were doing when I beat down your door?"

"Would it help if I asked if we could keep walking and change the subject?"

As he resumed his place at her side, he dared to touch her shoulder. She hesitated, then moved closer, into his arm. When he started to walk again she seemed able to anticipate and moved with him.

Well. Of course.

"I don't mind not having a nap, really," she murmured.

"There's a -- " They rounded the next corner, and the door he expected was right there. "In here."

"A cargo bay?" She went with him, of course. Curiosity worked equally well for cats and Betazoids. At least, after all these years working with her, he knew that much.

He found the right corner, opened a container on the bottom shelf, and from the packing material within, pulled up a bottle of wine. "A red. Do you prefer white? The red is a little sweeter but more intense."

"I prefer red. Is this. . . ."

"Yes. I think that I would enjoy sharing it with you very much."

"I. . . don't believe there's a replicator on this deck. Unless you brought glasses?"

"Quite right. We'll have to go -- I'm afraid to say it, but, my place or yours?"

"We're four doors down from each other, so either will do."

Picard ignored the glances from a lieutenant in the lift, and they left it on deck eight. The door to his quarters was closest. Gesturing with his free hand, he allowed her to go in ahead of him. He replicated glasses and a dish of chocolates. As he came to join her on the sofa, she eyed the chocolates in disbelief.

"This wine will go well with them. It's not just a cheap attempt to impress you."

She watched him pull the cork, decant the wine, and accepted a glass; she sipped and nodded approval, then reached for a chocolate. A smile was his reward -- the sort of smile one usually reserved for discovering of a guilty pleasure, almost blissful.

"How are you?"

She didn't really lose the smile, only gained a thoughtful expression in addition. "I believe I am better than I was, yesterday. I think things will be better still."

When his fingers brushed her face, she closed her eyes and lost the power of speech. Her mouth hung open wide enough that he could see her tongue and a few white teeth, her lips poised, inviting. He considered, letting his fingertips glide along her cheek, brushing her hair behind her ear, but rather than be pushy and forward he let his hand drop and reached for a chocolate himself. When his attention returned from the coffee table, he caught a fleeting moment of disappointment showing in her eyes. The hand holding the chocolate moved on its own, offering it to her instead, his knuckle brushing her lips accidentally.

"Dark chocolate," she said. "Delavian?"

"Yes." He paused. Contemplated. Reached out very deliberately and took her hand. She stiffened, but her hand turned in his, palm to palm, accepting. "I don't want this to have any impact on your career. I don't want to feel like I'm dancing around with an explosive device, on the other hand, and this is what we're doing, isn't it? As though the wrong word or the wrong joke will end everything."

"The uncertainty of the situation is unsettling," she said unexpectedly. Then swallowed, looked down and away from him, shrugging. "The. . . disparity. My feelings are as they have been. Every time I start to feel comfortable with you --  it occurs to me that I can't be, yet."

He stared, waiting, letting the wave of relief and hope wash over and around him as she added on her optimistic 'yet.' Waiting for her to recognize his feelings. It registered slowly; she shifted where she sat, facing him more directly, bringing her gaze to meet his -- he wasn't prepared for the fear in her eyes.

"Tell me," he whispered.

"I don't see how I can. What good will it do for you to understand -- how many nights I have imagined and re-imagined how it might happen, all the ways it could go wrong. I know that there is every possibility of moving forward and having any number of outcomes. . . . I know that you would likely make every effort to part as friends, if it came to that. It's part of why. . . . There's a large part of me that wants to. . . there's another that remembers all the ways this sort of relationship can damage me, or you. It doesn't help that -- "

"That?" he prodded when she couldn't seem to continue.

"When I reported for duty on the Enterprise, Will and I had an agreement that we would prioritize the professional over anything else -- it didn't matter how we felt, we'd keep things professional. Not that I felt anything for him at that time. It's difficult to forgive someone who broke your heart, but we became friends. And now he's trying to convince me I should go with him. Marry him. Work with him." She fixed her angry gaze on the toe of his boot. "I've been telling him that it won't happen."

He said nothing, but it explained a great deal about why Will was hesitating in accepting the starship he'd been offered, and it angered him. Some people never learned from their own history, it seemed.

"You can't let this change how you treat him," Deanna said.

"I realize. It's not as though this is anything new. I consider all of you close friends, after all. But it's frustrating. Part of my job is to develop new officers, new captains -- he's being a rather poor reflection on me."

She laughed at it, shaking her head. "He's a poor reflection on all of us, especially him. Lately our conversations have been circular. I keep telling him the same thing in a dozen different ways, he acts like repeating himself and ignoring my point will eventually wear me down."

"Mmm. His problem. How can I help you?"

She sighed, melting a little, anger draining from her posture. "You can't, really. But you have." She reached for her glass and another chocolate. "Talking about this to others is impossible."

"It gives me an idea of how to approach -- it will have an impact on my officers. Him more than others, it seems. But perhaps it will get him off the ship at last."

Deanna had a mouthful of chocolate and wine, but her chewing slowed as she thought. "Do you. . . ever miss Worf?"

"I can't say that I do. He was an excellent comrade at arms, a faithful officer, a dedicated and determined man from a culture that I understand but don't necessarily find appealing. I wish him all success and I think he's going to make a mark in history, a matter of pride considering how he was before -- who would have thought of him as a diplomat?"

"He admires you a great deal. He tries very hard to emulate you in many ways."

"Do you miss him?"

A faint smile. "Not really."

"Didn't think so." He poured more wine in her glass, put down the bottle and got another chocolate.

Deanna sipped more wine, and he wondered if she paid attention to her intake, and when she would start to show signs of it. He'd never seen her drinking freely, he realized.

"I think we should explore the possibility," he said after long pause. "You are as aware as I am of all the ways it might happen, but there's only one way to know how it will actually work."

She stared openly, cradling the bowl of the wine glass in her palm.

"We know that it's only going to work if we can be ourselves. But neither one of us is having any luck at that -- dodging around things that make you nervous isn't conducive to building anything."

"You're going to suggest ground rules."

"I'm going to suggest trusting ourselves. I trust you, and I can tell you trust me, or we wouldn't be drinking wine and talking about this so rationally. You're not trusting your own feelings. Each time you feel, or sense, something happy. . . your face falls and hope dies."

"You want me to embrace the risk." She sipped again, and again, and her glass was now down to a third of what it held moments ago.

"Or me. Whatever works." He waved at the door. "I can promise you that however this happens, an exit is always possible and I will remain your fellow officer and friend in whatever capacity you choose. But I retain the right to confront you if you are being irrational. I tend to think of that as supportive, but if I'm too pushy I expect to be told, and I promise not to be so dense you have to repeat yourself."

"You're already making promises."

"Nothing I can't keep. I try not to be dense as a matter of course -- it only gets in the way."

"I see." She frowned at her glass, swaying slightly. "I think -- this is very nice wine."

"I think you need some very nice water." Picard made the round trip to replicate some for her, returning to trade it for the wine glass.

"You have something planned that I need to be sober for?"

"Not. . . really, no. I had no plans at all, beyond talking. Were you intending to be drunk?"

"I've never been. Not really. I didn't think I would ever. But it's very good wine. Maybe if I eat more?"

He replicated some appetizers he thought he remembered her enjoying, at a diplomatic event not so long ago. She smiled and polished off six of them in a matter of seconds, then reached for the wine glass again.

"Technically, we're -- " But if he'd even thought about the fact that they were on duty, he wouldn't have gotten out the wine in the first place. This was on him, if there were repercussions.

"Do you think that I should stop drinking?"

"Perhaps. . . you should slow down? Have some more water, eat."

Suddenly she put the glass down and got to her feet, only swaying a little. "I need to -- " Without waiting for him to respond she wobbled for the bedroom, breaking into a run as she went in.

"Oh, my." Picard ran his palm over his head, debating, shrugged, and pulled off his jacket. Tossing it on the back of the sofa out of the way, he took a caviar-covered pastry and was contemplating the almost-empty wine bottle when the annunciator went off.

He froze -- well, that wasn't any good. Flinching like he'd been caught in the act, with no act to be guilty of! "Computer, who is at my door?"

"Doctor Beverly Crusher," the computer replied pleasantly as Deanna stumbled out wide-eyed.

"Sit, eat, stop panicking. Unless you were in there rearranging my drawers there's nothing to worry about."

She sighed and returned to her spot on the sofa, reaching for the glass, redirecting to the water, and picking up a canape in the other hand. The annunciator sounded again.

"Come," he called out, raising his glass to drink. When Beverly burst into the room, she did a splendid double-take, almost whirling about to run for it. "What?" he cried indignantly. "You gave advice. Why are you so surprised that I paid attention? Wine?"

Beverly stared at Deanna. "You're getting her drunk?"

"No, I offered her a glass of wine. She's had two glasses and I hadn't realized that it would be enough to -- " Wine had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bloody hell.

"He didn't know I'm a lightweight," Deanna blurted, her cheeks still flushed and with enough of a slur to prove that yes, she was definitely a lightweight. She reached for another canape.

"I see." Beverly turned and asked the replicator for a glass before joining them on the sofa. She held it out for him to pour. A meager amount dribbled out of the bottle. "Make one of us drunk, deprive the other of the experience?"

"No, I need another bottle. If we're going to keep drinking it."

"It's very good wine," Deanna said, listing to the right.

Beverly sipped, and sighed. "We need another bottle."

"What do you have to drink about?" Picard thought there was an edge about her.

Beverly grimaced. "There's not a lot going on in sickbay, really. But I was just riding in the lift with a really pissy first officer who can't seem to understand why I'd rather keep the job I have."

"All right, stay, I'll be back momentarily."

He made the round trip and realized, on the way back with the bottle, that he himself had quite a good buzz. Impaired judgment and all. He'd walked out in the gray turtleneck, no jacket, and couldn't seem to keep the corridor straight. Getting more of the very good wine -- Deanna had good taste at least -- when he should be the proper captain he always was. . . .

That wasn't so. He just hadn't been anything but the captain aboard his ship.

Well, no. There were exceptions --

What was he thinking about this so much for? A glass of wine with friends, throwing a birthday party for Geordi, playing poker, breakfast with Beverly -- nothing difficult or complicated about any of this.

Beverly was gone when he returned. Deanna had replicated another plate of food, something wrapped in large green leaves. She seemed embarrassed -- again.

"I suppose she didn't want to be a fifth wheel," he said, picking up the corkscrew as he sat next to her.

"That's what she said."

"If you're in need of a chaperone, we could always have Data come in. He wouldn't drink any of the wine, and he'd be happy to lecture on warp mechanics and the consistency of his cat's latest flavor of custom blended feline sustenance."

It wasn't enough. Was she a weepy drunk? Deanna seemed deep in meditation of her empty wine glass, hardly looking at him as he filled it again.

"What else did Beverly say?"

"She asked me if -- " A deep, deep sigh. "If things were going well. If I thought it would -- and then she was happy about it, and asked me if I'd kissed you yet."

"Well, I hope you took advantage of the opportunity. People who tease you like that are asking for it." It registered then what she had just said. Or not said, rather. He distracted himself by testing the wine, letting the flavor sit on his tongue and in the nose, enjoying -- this was an older vintage, a better flavored version of a blend Robert had created using the fruit of the old Mourvèdre vines with a newer variety of Grenache.

"I think it was more curiosity than teasing."

"Is that why you're upset?"

Another heavy sigh. She draped herself on the back of the couch, pillowing her head on her left arm. She'd pulled off her boots and curled one leg up beneath her. She looked tired, and miserable, and small -- gathering her up and putting her to bed was the first impulse, but while the distant future could be guessed at, the immediate future, those short-term considerations and decisions upon which the long-term should be built, were less clear.

Settling back himself as he popped one of the leaf-wrapped items in his mouth -- wow, cried his taste buds, the stuff inside might rival some of the hotter varieties of chili pepper for searing burning hot goodness -- and balanced the wine glass on his thigh, reaching for her with his right hand, tugging. Obediently she draped herself against him and her nose and mouth came to rest against his neck. Her arm burrowed between the sofa and his lower back, her sigh trickled along under his jaw, and he found himself kissing the top of her head.

Some time later, he woke up from a light hazy state of drowsing to find his glass tipping slowly. He leaned gently to put it on the table in front of them, nearly dislodging Deanna. Who was asleep, he realized, as the soft moan and light snore seemed to indicate. He pulled one of the cushions over and transitioned her to it, fetching a blanket to drape over her. A glance at how her jacket was rucked up around her and he began to unfasten it, trying not to wake her.

"Jean-Luc," she mumbled, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Sorry. You fell asleep. I was trying to make you more comfortable."

"Oh." Pushing herself up, she finished taking off the jacket and he passed it to the end of the sofa to join his. She reached for her wine and had another drink.

"You should probably take a nap, if you're that tired. I'll wake you for dinner."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to -- "

"Deanna, really, this isn't going on your performance review. I find it comforting that you've managed to relax so much."

She studied him, a great deal of thinking taking place behind her worried eyes. "It's you," she said.

"I'm putting you to sleep?"

She cracked a smile, finally. "Not at all. I'm tired. You're calm and happy. You let me lean on you. If I can avoid thinking about -- it's easier not to be worried because you aren't worried."

"One of those Betazoid things," he summarized. Polishing off what was left in his glass, he poured more. Wait, some dwindling rational voice somewhere in his brain said. But it was excellent wine.

"An empath thing. If I were really Betazoid my life would be less complicated."

"You're still drunk, and that was a mope." He sat next to her and put his feet, one after the other, on the table.

"A mope."

"You're a moping drunk."

"Am not."

"Pouting and moping." Picard passed her the plate of leafy objects. "These are good. Your own recipe?"

"A family recipe. I'm surprised you like it." The plate she passed along to push it farther from her down the sofa.

"How is your life is any less complicated than mine?"

She tore the band out of her hair and flung it on the table. "I didn't say it wasn't. I wish sometimes that I could uncomplicate things, though."

"Maybe I'm hopeful about this because it doesn't feel complicated."

She rolled her eyes, a twist in the corner of her mouth, and drank down the last ounce of her wine. "Yet."

"Sarcastic, pouting and moping. I'm finding this more appealing with every discovery."

"At least the sarcasm can be a joint effort." She put the wine glass on the table with a little more force than necessary and fell back against the sofa, rubbing her eyes, running her fingers through her hair. "I'm sorry. This is nothing at all like I -- it wasn't -- I guess. . . ."

"If I started over tomorrow, by asking you out, what would be your ideal first date?"

A strangled sort of half-laugh was her response. Deanna stared at the ceiling -- out the viewport, he guessed -- and held her head against the back of the sofa as if it might fly apart any time. "I have no idea, really. I'd have guessed wine and dinner, if. . . . But I don't know if you'll ever want to give me another glass of it now. I don't feel so well, I'm sorry."

"If it's not sickbay-worthy, what can I do to help? Something for the headache? More water might help." Picard cleared things away, put a stopper in the bottle, and moved the low table away from the sofa. He crossed his arms and surveyed the situation, and returned to her side quickly as he noticed her wince.

"I should go to my quarters," she mumbled. "I don't want to impose and I certainly feel all the worse for letting myself get to this point when -- it's not the impression one wants to make, you know?"

"I did say I wanted to know you better. I certainly do have more insight into your limits, so far as alcohol consumption goes."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, rubbing her eye again. Crying, he realized.

"This was not anything to apologize for, Deanna. It was my wine and we both drank it. If you want to put up your feet and take a nap you don't need to leave."

Deanna's eyes opened wide and her head rolled toward him, proving her veins and arteries still sloshed with wine in copious amounts. "You're being so. . . nice. . . to me."

"I can be nicer than this, if you like."

She went nearly cross-eyed with dismay. "Sir," she cried when he picked her up. "Wait. Not -- "

"No, not 'sir,' not now. Don't hit me, either." She flailed ineffectively in protest. Flailing, sarcastic, moping, pouting, weeping drunk. And he nearly staggered himself, but fortunately he retained sufficient motor coordination to maneuver her into the bedroom without damage to either of them.

He had her in his bed before she could catch up mentally with what he was doing. When he returned with a full glass of water and a wet cloth, she looked up at him with such pathos that he very nearly laughed at her.

"You will sleep, and when you awaken, we will have dinner." And neither one of us will be drunk, he promised himself. Or not nearly so.

"Okay." She sounded somewhat uncertain, but obediently wriggled until she'd curled up on her right side and closed her eyes. He waited, and when the first tiny snore made itself known, he left the room.

Picard settled at his desk in the main room and retrieved data -- the away teams were amassing plenty of it, and efficiently cataloging and storing it -- until the annunciator went off. "Come," he said, without his usual volume. Hopefully Deanna was mostly comatose.

He said a silent prayer to whatever deity was on duty at that moment that she was very comatose, as Will Riker came in. He most sincerely did not need a flailing, sarcastic, moping, pouting, weeping, drunken Deanna confronting Will, in his quarters.

"Commander?"

"I'm looking for Deanna," he announced.

"Will -- "

"The computer said she was here. I was hoping -- " His eyes wandered over and landed on the wine bottle, corked, conveniently sitting on an end table with the ambient light slanting just so, making it obvious that the bottle was half empty. He sighed. "Jean-Luc? Where is she?"

Picard contemplated explanations, rationalizations, procrastinations, but in the end settled for not giving a vole's ass what Will Riker thought about anything. "She wasn't feeling well. She's asleep."

Riker's eyes widened. He let his eyes wander around the room again, as if expecting to find her draped over a chair, or possibly passed out under the table. "I don't -- " He took two steps, and then he saw her jacket casually engaged in intimate contact with Picard's on the end of the sofa. " -- the hell," he muttered, then increased the volume. "What the hell?"

"Did you have something to say, Commander?" Picard asked in a steady, stern manner that didn't sound like the plea that it was. _Please do not behave like an ass_.

Will tilted his head. "It's been a pleasure working with you, sir." And he practically ground a hole in the carpet with his heel and marched out of the room.

Picard turned off the screen and waited. Silence. "Computer, where is Commander Riker?"

"Commander Riker is in his quarters."

"Picard to Crusher."

"Crusher here," came the immediate response.

"Do you have a moment and a medkit handy?"

"On my way, sir."

He arranged for the door to open for her without delay, and when it did she hardly faltered, her lab coat billowing like wings behind her. "What's wrong?"

He came from behind the desk and led her into the bedroom, where they stood over the soundly-sleeping woman at the middle of a whorl of creased covers. Beverly stared at her. "Jean-Luc, what -- "

"She's sleeping off the wine, but I think there's about to be a major explosion and she needs to recover faster than that. Will was looking for her, the computer directed him here."

"Why would that be a bad thing? I know he's in a bad mood today, but he was going to find out anyway. Maybe he won't be happy, but he's an officer."

Picard sighed. "He's been hesitating to take the promotion because she won't capitulate and go with him. She told me just today."

"And he's angry. You think that will result in him doing something he'll regret?"

"I thought it would result in a call for security, for a few agonizing seconds."

Beverly sighed, holding the medkit in front of her with both hands. "She's going to be upset if I wake her -- she didn't look like she slept well last night."

"Neither one of us did. At all."

"I ought to tranquilize both of you, then." Beverly frowned. "Her quarters are four doors down. Why is she here?"

"I was a little tipsy myself. Judgment is the first thing to go, the evidence being that I got a second bottle knowing full well she was off balance after the first. It made sense at the time."

"Computer, where is Will Riker?" Beverly asked.

"Commander Riker is in his quarters," the computer repeated just as pleasantly as last time.

Beverly eyed the half glass of water. "She's doing fine. She should sleep. You, on the other hand. . . ." She cracked open the kit and rummaged one-handed, then pressed the hypospray against his neck. "There. Go forth and be rational. Or don't -- I'm sure she'll love it if you wake her up sweetly enough."

"You," he growled.

Beverly smiled at him over her shoulder on her way out. "You'll thank me in the morning. I'll wait for you to call me, if you'd like me to stop in for breakfast."

"Why are you being so damn pushy about this?"

She hesitated just shy of the door. "Because if there's one thing the two of you have in common, it's your unfailing habit of second guessing yourselves. She loves you, and it's looking like you're having no troubles getting comfortable with this whole idea."

"I'm not going to -- it's not that simple," he protested.

Beverly pursed her lips. "It probably could be, really." And she was gone, the door sliding shut behind her.

A few moments of thought later, he glanced down at Deanna. Her left eye, the visible one, was slightly open. Her mouth twisted into a frown. "It's whatever we want it to be," he whispered.

She rolled on her back and regarded him soberly. "I agree."

"What do you want, today?"

"Just the one thing I want most, or all of them?"

He smiled. "A list is fine."

"Hm. I'd like Will to accidentally knock himself out so I don't have to know he's furious. I'd like to sleep. I'd like to not see Beverly again for a few days, unless I have to."

"I think the sleep would be the most important thing on the list. Is it too hard to sleep with Will on the next deck from here?"

"I'm afraid so."

He went to the replicator and returned with another glass. She smiled.

"Aunt Adele's warm milk?"

"It does help. You were able to sleep earlier when I sat with you. Would that help as well?"

Deanna sat up and took the milk. A few swallows of it and she paused to smile and (though she didn't realize) show off her milk mustache. "I think so. And you should get some sleep, too. You look tired."

While she finished the milk, he pulled at his boots, and sighed. "I feel tired. Computer, engage privacy locks. Suspend all comm calls unless the ship goes on alert."

"It's cinnamon," Deanna murmured. "Nutmeg?"

"Secret recipe. Bump over a bit."

It was, he mused, just the sort of day he needed to process in a log entry or possibly with a counselor -- and the day wasn't even over yet. Had anyone told him twenty four hours ago that he would be in bed -- technically on the bed, she was under the covers and he hadn't bothered to get in -- with Deanna Troi. . . .

Well. That was something to process when his brain could function.

\---------------------

Picard blinked. When he sat up, he was alone -- the bed was a wreck, and he'd not even gotten in.

Had she actually been here?

"Computer, time?"

"The time is sixteen hundred twenty nine." Alpha shift was nearly over. Time to contemplate what to do with the evening. He straightened the covers, wandered out to --

"Oh," he exclaimed upon seeing the bottle of wine and his jacket over the end of the sofa. Hers was gone. "Computer. . . location of Deanna Troi."

"Commander Troi is in her quarters."

So, not a dream, and she'd left without waking him. Could mean anything. She probably went to change clothes. Something he decided he'd be better off doing himself. A shower, then something other than a uniform. He grabbed the jacket and went about it.

The annunciator went off again as he pulled a long-sleeved green shirt over his head, startling him into a few seconds of immobility. "Come in," he said, fastening his pants and heading out to see what new challenge might be presenting itself.

But it was only Deanna, and she smiled pleasantly at him. "You feel better," she said.

"Much. You look better." He tried not to be terribly obvious about admiring the shimmering red dress, but the material was obviously light enough to cling to her contours. Well, why would she wear it if she didn't want him to look?

"I went to get something less rumpled and more suitable for dinner, and an analgesic from Beverly. Who is not teasing me any more. I talked to her for a bit about things being. . . awkward for a while, until this settles out."

"Yes. Good idea. What about Commander Petulance?"

She giggled softly and shook her head. "What about him?"

"So he's not bothered you yet?"

"He hasn't bothered anyone, I don't think. He's still hiding in his quarters. I think he's taken the rage down a few notches to a light simmer. When he's turned it down a little more I might go talk to him, if I'm not doing anything more important." Coquettish was the word for how she was acting -- her sly tilt of the head, the smile, the slant of hip and hands clasped before her.

"It's early for dinner. Would you like anything -- a non-alcoholic beverage, perhaps?"

A dimple appeared, and she shook her head.

He considered all the options -- walk around the ship, walk around a holodeck, sit and talk -- and while he considered, she closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his chest, looking him in the eye.

They studied each other for a bit. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, all kinds of words presented themselves -- it merely seemed that speaking would interrupt. Neither one of them moved but he thought there was movement of thoughts and emotions one could really cheapen with verbal description.

Lips brushed lips, and it seemed to be only something in addition to, not the only thing -- after a few experimental passes she pushed inward, her hands sliding up his shoulders, his fingers finding her hips and gliding up the back of her dress. Something he couldn't understand was happening. Body contact he comprehended, and appreciated, but there was something else going on here.

And it came clearer then in its absence, flowed away from him as she stood back and was no longer touching him, and there was loss. "What -- "

The fear had returned, the sadness, and she stared at the floor, frowning. "I'm sorry. I -- it's not something I really expected. I can't -- it's beyond my control. I'm not Betazoid. I could control it if I were."

"Sit, now. There." He pointed, and mentally clouted himself for falling back to what he supposed must be a default of 'starship captain in a crisis.' "Please," he added belatedly.

"I want to do this your way," she said, heading for the sofa. He gave her some space, settled within arm's length but not touching her.

"My way," he echoed.

"I realize that I'm -- " She inhaled, trying to contain and settle down. "I'm at a different place, emotionally. You want to see if you might be able to -- and you're clearly wanting to avoid rushing right in, for whatever reason, which I think quite prudent. But I don't think you intend to avoid all physical contact entirely and when I -- " She fumbled for words. He thought he understood why.

"Something Betazoid," he said. "Which doesn't make sense if you're not really Betazoid, Dee."

An incredulous smile wavered on her lips. "No, I suppose not. But if I were more Betazoid and not -- "

"I don't care what label you choose. You're fine as you are."

"It's nice of you to say, but. . . I've never had a relationship last for more than a few months. There's a reason for that."

Now, there was a cause for pause. "I would assume. . . that had more to do with the same sorts of reasons many relationships in general fail. Starfleet, and the difficulties of balancing career considerations and -- cultural considerations as well."

She clearly knew what he meant. "Worf was very different, yes, in so many ways, but it could all have been negotiated except -- this. He wanted me to not -- it's just not possible. I've tried. I resorted to consulting with Vulcans. I've meditated, contemplated, experimented and it's always the same."

"So what you really need is someone who accepts the inevitable. Or perhaps another empath's input into the problem?"

Deanna's expression shifted from anxiety to insulted disbelief. "Really."

"What -- is it the same, each time? Or does it change, become more encompassing on a cumulative. . . ."

"Near the end, Worf described it as 'smothering' and 'intolerable.'" And as he reacted to that, she sighed. "It wasn't his fault. It's not what he needed or wanted in a relationship. It was more than I could expect him to adjust to, more than I expect you to. . . ."

"What if it's different with me?" When she rolled her eyes he changed direction. "What if there's something I could do to mediate the effects? has anyone ever tried?"

Her unexpected smile was accompanied by a wash of warmth -- something noticeable and pleasant. He sat up a little straighter, reaching for her hand; she provided it without hesitation.

"This is partly why I didn't tell you," she murmured. "Impossible situations tend to drive you into a determined effort to change them."

"Do you suppose that to be the only reason I was willing to explore possibilities with you?"

At that, her gaze faltered and her cheeks flushed. "No. But you aren't in love with me."

"I spent a lifetime with a woman I never fell in love with."

Deanna's brow wrinkled and her hand twisted in his to grip his fingers. "Eline was the product of your imagination in conjunction with a probe that psychically controlled your emotions surrounding her."

"You're sure about that? Why would it even bother letting me suffer for a few years wandering about looking for a way back to space, if it could do that?"

"To convince you it wasn't manipulating you?"

He took a few moments to think about this, and to look her in the eyes. She'd at least stopped being so emotionally wracked by whatever went on behind her dark eyes; probably not being drunk had a lot to do with that.

"When did this start to be a problem?"

She frowned. "I've always had problems. When I was younger I had even less control, but it wasn't so overpowering then as it appears to be now. I also used to find other people's intense emotions quite unbearable."

"What if -- Hmm. Isn't there a sort of inhibitor that would temporarily suspend. . . ."

Deanna shook her head, but stopped. A brilliant smile blossomed. "That might be a place to start."

"Start?"

"If I had the inhibitor to dampen. . . I couldn't overwhelm you. It would be clearer if it were really something you felt, and not something you feel in response to what I feel."

"You think I'm only interested -- that it's you, entirely. This -- no. I don't think so at all."

"Would you mind if I test that?" She leaned and kissed his cheek, patted his arm, and rose from the sofa. "I'll be right back."

He watched her leave. Sighing, he leaned back, reaching for a book he'd left on the end table yesterday. Trying to read it proved difficult -- the intricacies of a twenty-first century detective novel could not distract him from wondering about the current circumstances.

He didn't do waiting well. Picard headed for the desk and the computer. A cursory search resulted in a handful of source articles, and the titles only generated more questions. He contemplated one in particular, that contained the keywords 'empath,' 'hybrid,' 'Phase,' and 'late stages of telepathic development.' As he scrolled through it he thought that he must be misunderstanding. It was a relief when the annunciator sounded, and he stood to greet Deanna.

If only it hadn't been Will coming in the door. "Well, good afternoon," he managed, even sounding a little jovial.

"I wanted to apologize to you for what happened earlier today." Will glanced around, obviously anxious but curious enough to hunt for signs of Deanna's presence. "I wasn't really prepared for -- not that you could prepare for it, I guess. But I shouldn't have reacted -- overreacted."

"Not a problem. Was there something you were wanting to discuss, before being derailed?"

"I wanted to let you know I was accepting command of the Titan. And now I want you to know that it wasn't -- it's not because of you and Deanna. She's made it pretty clear, as I'm sure you know, that I can't expect her to join me, and why."

"I'm certain you'll find having your own ship will help you forget any embarrassment incurred in the process." Picard grinned and went forward to clasp hands with his soon-to-be-former first officer. "Good show, Will. Always a pleasure to be a part of a good officer's advancement."

"Thanks." Will grinned too, with that rakish glee he did so well. His eyes were sly and somewhat feral. "And, I'd congratulate you as well, except I think you might find she's -- "

Another chiming, another interruption, and a cold dread took up residence in Picard's stomach, not because of Will now but because of a suspicion of Deanna's current condition that might not be all it seemed.

But it wasn't Deanna, yet.

"Mr. Data, I have a job for you," Picard exclaimed, as the android held out a padd and opened his mouth to report something insignificant about their less-than-inspiring mission. "We need a going away party. What's the time table, Will?"

"Admiral Jardine suggested that I should be at McKinley in a month. Launch is set for six months from now, and I have a crew to assemble and leave to take, among other things."

"Congratulations, Will," Data exclaimed. Now he was grinning like a fiend as well. "But you did not leave me much time to prepare."

"Not much time to finish two more planetary surveys either," Picard said. "Which I assume is what you're here to discuss?"

"This is the collected data on the meteorological and geographical surveys. We will be completing the -- "

"Right, fine." He took the padd and pitched it at the desk, darted over to grab the wine bottle. "Computer, three wine glasses."

"You just happened to have a bottle of wine sitting around?" Will asked, fetching the glasses from the replicator.

"One must be prepared for such occasions." Or pretend that one is prepared. He poured each of them half a glass, polishing off the bottle -- he and Deanna had definitely had more than he'd thought. Must pay more attention next time. "A toast!"

"To good friends," Data said, and they tapped glasses and sipped.

"Here, here." Picard sipped and let chitchat happen -- Data's tangents had become thankfully less tangential over time, and Will teasing the android about 'first officer lessons' was amusing, if only mildly so.

Will glanced at him after a while, though, and Data followed suit. "I'm writing my farewell address for the party in my head," Picard explained. "Don't mind me."

"I should get going," Will said. "We were officially off duty a bit ago -- I need to send off a few messages before I quit for the day."

Data nodded and departed as well, having delivered his report, and that left Picard alone with an empty glass. He recycled it and sighed, letting go of what little tension remained. Sighing, he sprawled on the sofa and put up his feet. He'd just thought of and asked for some music when the call came.

"Crusher to Picard."

"Pause music. Picard here," he replied, immediately tense again.

"Could you come to my office, please?"

"I. . . will be there momentarily."

When he arrived in sickbay the nurse shot him a look that only increased the anxiety. Hurrying straight into Beverly's little office, he nearly ran into the back of Deanna's chair. A little quick footwork and he managed to avoid collision while dropping into the empty seat next to her.

Deanna had returned to sad and small; she hunched in the seat as if she'd just been fired and it was her fault. Without really thinking about it he laid a hand on her arm, wanting to comfort.

"I'm afraid it's not fatal, but I almost wish it was," Deanna said.

"Oh, well. . . I'd heard that the Phase is nothing at all like suffering." He would have gone on in similar fashion, if only to reassure her it wasn't the end of the universe, but she stared at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted long hair.

"You knew?" Beverly asked -- well, more of a demand, or possibly an accusation.

"I. . . guessed. Because while she keeps insisting I don't know her so well, I rather think I know her better than to not notice when she's not quite herself."

"You didn't say anything," Deanna exclaimed.

"When have I had a chance to? I'm certainly not going to get coherent answers when you're drunk, or asleep."

At that, she pressed her palm against her forehead, eyes closed, pain written across her face. "I'm turning into my mother. Good goddess, I just want for once -- why can't anything be easy for me?"

"Oh, that would just be boring," Picard said, then noticed Beverly's searing gaze. Was he being dense again?

But Deanna smiled faintly, her hand dropping from her head to his hand, which was still gripping her right arm. "I'm sorry. I'm having a difficult time because -- I've always hated to blame hormones, but this time it's true, I'm not myself. So my judgment is completely clouded and confused."

"So what can I do to help?"

The atmosphere in the room changed completely. Beverly's glare had turned to shocked staring.  Deanna's blink and backwards lean were somewhat countered by her slowly-growing smile.

"What. . . Jean-Luc, really." Beverly sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"Maybe I should have asked that differently. What do you need to resolve this. . . issue?"

Deanna's smile waned again, and she shot a look at the doctor. "Beverly said she believes it will pass on its own. No intervention required."

"Oh. That's almost disappointing."

He flinched when Beverly popped up out of the chair -- did sickbay chairs even have an eject mechanism? She calmed herself a lot faster than he'd expect. Probably thanks to motherhood, which for her no doubt involved a lot of explosions, given Wesley's later prowess with warp fields and shield generators.

"I think the two of you need to go. I should have sent Deanna to you instead of calling you in -- I  thought you would want to hear a rational medical -- " Beverly snatched the tricorder from the desk and pointed the wand at him, leaning into its limited range, running scans while he sat still out of surprise. Deanna watched her with a new expression on her face -- not just fear now, but horror.

"Well," Beverly said as she snapped the tricorder shut.

"What?" Deanna exclaimed.

"I don't think it's anything to be. . . ."

"Beverly!" Deanna demanded when she hesitated.

"It's nothing to be concerned about," Beverly continued. "He's just being an ass. This is something I could have warned you about -- "

"I am not -- "

" -- because he and Jack were both asses, frequently, whenever they had the opportunity," Beverly finished loudly over the top of his protest. "Which doesn't mean I didn't love Jack, just that human males -- "

" -- are frequently asses," Deanna finished. "Exhibit two being the first officer."

"And once we accept that they can be asses, we can occasionally kick them and remind them to be gentleman or lose certain. . . privileges."

"Now who's being an ass?" Picard replied cooly.

Deanna seemed confused, but rallied bravely. "I knew you were good friends, but I had no idea you actually held ass contests."

And then they were both laughing at it, Beverly having to sit down again with an ungraceful thump, leaving Deanna confused again.

"Sorry," he gasped, taking her hand instead of grabbing her arm again. "Seriously, Dee, what do you want -- Dee?"

It was no good. She wouldn't look at either of them. Beverly stepped around the desk and bent to touch her friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Deanna. Do you want me to go?"

"I think we should go, unless he wants you to explain," she murmured.

"Do I need to know the full explanation?"

Beverly met his gaze over Deanna's head, clearly saying, despite her lack of telepathic ability, that if this went badly for Deanna he would suffer an excruciating death by doctor. "Judging by your attitude toward her it might not be necessary."

But then, if he didn't ask, would he regret not being fully informed? He glanced at Deanna, who appeared to be doing her best not to look at him. Squeezing her hand to get her attention, he said, "Why don't you head for my quarters and I'll catch up to you? I have some good news for you."

She did look at him then, her eyes bouncing off him immediately, but meeting his long enough to confirm that yes, she really was having a tough time for some reason. "All right."

When she had sidled out between the chairs and the door shut behind her, Beverly dropped into her vacated seat. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Every time she tries a deep, serious conversation, she ends up extremely depressed and convinced things will end badly. If I let her keep going it gets worse. I can tell she knows what's real, and rational, and that no one can predict the true course of any relationship -- hell, she's told me that about a thousand times over the years herself. She can't seem to lift herself out of the mood on her own. But if I keep bouncing jokes off her it seems to break the cycle."

Beverly exhaled. "Well, that makes sense then. I was afraid you'd guzzled another bottle of wine."

"So now I'm not an ass?"

"Jean-Luc, whatever's going on with the Phase, I don't think it's the only reason she's going through this. If she didn't have feelings for you when the Phase started she wouldn't have focused on you once it began."

"So I gathered."

Beverly took his hand, then, surprising him. "You've obviously decided that there is a possibility. . . . So I'll put it to you despite my misgivings. What if she gets through the Phase with you in her bed, and then doesn't want to stay with you?"

Picard sighed heavily. "I would never try to coerce or force her to stay whether her reasons for -- whether it had anything to do with the Phase or not. What?"

Slumping wasn't what Beverly normally did, but she was doing it. Shaking her head, she let go his hand and propped her forearm on the arm of the chair. "By my estimation she's been in Phase for about a month, and she'll be in it for another week or so. Hybrids are unpredictable in most ways when it comes to this, but it doesn't last more than a month, usually."

"I thought you were encouraging this to happen."

"That was before I knew about the Phase. I wouldn't have teased her or -- my god, Jean-Luc. She's miserable and delirious all at the same time." Beverly glanced, then stared, at him. "She wouldn't want you to do this out of some impulse to repay her for -- "

"Just stop. That's not even -- I have not, at any point, thought about that. Even if I had it wouldn't be your -- "

"All right, settle down. You're right, you haven't even had time to think about it. You were too busy chugging wine and -- "

"Beverly!"

"You'd better get back to your quarters. She's probably either weeping or redecorating your bathroom, depending on where the hormones are heading at any given second." And as he rose, she continued, on a different tangent. "What was the good news?"

"Will accepted the ship. He's also not as angry as I thought he was, and that doesn't appear to be an issue any more."

"Well, it's your lucky day all the way around, then," Beverly exclaimed.

"Mockery will get you nowhere." He paused, remembering something Beverly had said earlier. "Will was trying to take you with him?"

"He's upset, Jean-Luc. I'm not going to give you every detail of the conversation -- he needed to talk to someone, and conveniently the counselor is the last person he'd want to do that with. And in the course of the conversation he did ask if I'd like to transfer, though I'm sure he knew the answer already, and I told him that it wasn't going to happen." She bit her lower lip briefly. "I think he figured out she was in Phase, too. Something he said. . . . Anyway, sounds like it's all resolved, right?"

"Perhaps. I don't know if I will ever assume that about anyone, though."

Beverly's expression seemed both fearful and threatening. "Forget breakfast, and Dee's on medical leave for the time being. Good luck."

He spared a few seconds to stare indignantly before he left. "Good luck," he muttered as he strode down the corridor. "Good luck!"

Deanna wasn't in view as he entered, so he went on through to the bedroom and found her there. Unexpectedly, she wasn't redecorating, changing into anything scant, or completely nude, but sitting on the bed looking forlorn.

"Hungry?"

"I haven't had an appetite for two weeks," she said, and yes, forlorn was the correct term. "Why didn't I realize? The black and white thinking, the mood swings, the -- "

" -- bigger breasts," he threw in.

It worked -- she blinked up at him in complete disbelief. "What?"

"You really don't notice how tight your uniforms are getting lately?"

And then she leaned back, spread her arms, and looked -- at the front of the dress which wasn't at all tight. "They aren't! Are they?"

"Would that be a bad thing?" He tossed it back at her on his way into the head, locking himself in for the moments it took to relieve himself. When he emerged, she was right where he'd left her but not quite as lost in thought.

"Thank you."

"For?" He couldn't help feeling a little uneasy, but perched on the edge of the bed next to her. They needed to talk; it was easier to look her in the eye.

"You've been very patient. I'm sure it hasn't been very much fun to put up with my moodiness."

"I attributed it to the general situation, and then to the wine, and when I really thought about it I did notice you were being rather. . . extreme. You seem better now."

She regarded him with one of the expressions he wasn't yet used to receiving from her -- a fond sort of admiration. No -- call it what it is, Picard. Stop trying to relabel it and thinking around the fact that you have a wonderful woman in love with you, and don't take it for granted, either.

"You aren't your mother," he said softly. More softly than he had intended. "I'm rather insulted that you would say so, considering."

The dimple came out again briefly. "You don't have to keep distracting me with humor, Jean-Luc."

"That wasn't humorous. But I should feed you, appetite or not. What would you like to eat?"

Again, she gazed at him with happy stars in her eyes. Which flickered, and --

"What are you thinking about?"

"She wouldn't give me inhibitor. She thinks I'm -- do you think I'm overreacting?"

Imaginary or not, he'd lived through a marriage and knew what a minefield this was. "I think you're behaving in a manner consistent with the situation, given the stress of your condition. Dinner?"

She followed him out of the bedroom, catching his arm and, as he turned to look at her, stepping in to kiss him. Not the sort of exploratory kiss she'd tried before -- this was the sort of kiss he hadn't had in -- oh, he couldn't remember how long. It wasn't just a kiss, either; while her tongue danced around with his, she pressed her body against his and her hands worked their way under his shirt.

He tried to back away; she came with him. He caught at her arms and she pulled them out of his hands and kept going. Ah, well.

Kissing her back excited her. Holding her and having her enthusiastically pressing her breasts against his chest and rubbing her thigh along his leg excited him. Deanna hummed -- purred, he supposed would be a better description -- and gently ran her thumb over his right nipple.

The sensation short-circuited something and he realized seconds later that he'd lost himself when her dress -- really a blouse and skirt, apparently -- had parted and the top half had magically peeled away so his left hand could cradle her breast, a really magnificent one, with a broad aureole in light brown. She seemed intent on mapping the inside of his mouth in millimeter increments, so tearing away to explore the new territory with his tongue proved difficult. Once there, however, he found that she adapted, grabbing his head and moaning.

"Please," she whispered. "Please -- "

His right hand had moved slowly down into her skirt, which had no stretch whatsoever and began to tear; she grabbed it and yanked -- if he had not been so carefully avoiding the scrutiny of her body perhaps he might have noticed the absence of panty lines in the slinky material, hence the absence of panties themselves, which may have accelerated matters considerably if he had only paid attention --

"Computer engage privacy lock!" he shouted.

Somehow he got her to the sofa. Somehow, he got her to stop pulling him down on top of her or trying to rip his shirt, whatever she was doing, and dropped to the floor to part her legs and run his hands up her thighs and when his thumbs struck moist, engorged tissue she cried out and almost kicked him in the head bending her leg in some sort of ecstatic reaction to it. It shook him loose from the rush long enough to think a little, and entertain himself by using his fingers to explore -- but everything worked equally well. She writhed and moaned and seemed to be crying as he ran fingertips around and into her. The smell of her intoxicated him. He fleetingly wondered if this were a normal musk or something more laden with pheremones than usual but really, this kind of analysis could wait --

It tasted about ten times more intoxicating than it smelled, not sweet or sour or anything in between, indescribable, and when he sucked gently on her swollen, hard clitoris, she shouted and came, back arched and hands nearly crushing him against her.

"Jean-Luc," she pleaded, clearly not about to lapse into anything resembling post-orgasmic bliss. "Help me. . . ."

At least she let go, a little, her hands always in contact with part of his body but allowing him to move, getting in his way a little as he worked on removing his clothing. She brushed her fingers along his penis and nearly knocked him to his knees again when she leaned forward and licked, then sucked lightly on the tip of it.

"We have all night," he said, hoarse and not sounding as composed as -- well, how could he expect composure at all?

"Jean-Luc," she said again, ragged and needy, begging. "Help. . . please. . . I can't. . . ." One of her fists pressed against her belly, low, just above that dark patch of hair. The other hand guided his in again and he let her, kneeling once more, and as she mindlessly ground herself on his palm he realized this would not be a night of lovemaking. She wanted sex, and she --

"Yes," he said, looking at her face. "Don't worry."

"Now," she panted. "Please. Please."

She let him move her to the bedroom, stumbling where he led her by the arm, getting in bed, giving him the chance to really look at her. But making her wait for more than a few seconds seemed cruel, her eyes followed him, pleading, and he took the hand she held out and laid himself down over her. The body contact sent her into a writhing ecstasy and that didn't help at all. Or perhaps it did. She wanted him inside her, cried out in joy, pushed against him, contracted around him -- she tasted and smelled wonderful, felt even better.

He found that as hard as he was, as close to the edge as he'd been feeling, it simply. . . continued. Letting himself move a little harder, faster, and her response -- with the harder thrusts she gasped his name, practically levitated, her skin glistening. She thrashed and moaned against the bed as he grabbed the headboard in both hands and drove onward. Realizing that he was actually growling himself almost disrupted things but no, too far into this, too far gone.

"Nowyesyes -- " She clamped down around him so hard and raked at his shoulder with her nails, biting, clawing, twisting, that climax hit him like a wall -- he slammed in, heard her head strike the headboard -- not that it had anything to do with her scream, she wailed as he thrust harder yet again, and again, shuddering, coming hard and unable to stop --

Sweat ran into his mouth, flew out as he panted, groaned, could not stop hammering away at her -- she wasn't clawing any more but clutching his shoulders and moving around and down, begging for more, whispering his name again, pushing herself off the bed against him --

He wasn't coming but he was still hard. Slowly, slowly, their movements became less urgent and feverish; she kissed him again, running her hands over his slick skin.

"How," he whispered at last.

"Mmm." She touched his face, let her hand slide to his chest, pushed gently until his weight shifted off to the right of her. But she seemed to want as much contact as possible, just the same, pulling his arm across her chest and laying her cheek against his shoulder.

"Dee."

"Jean-Luc," she replied, sounding tired but amused.

"Amazing."

"You were," she murmured. "It was."

". . . will be?"

"Think so. Yes."

"Too old."

"Not really." Her hand found and caressed his erect penis like it was her pet. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was understandable that this did not concern him in the slightest.

"Sore?"

"Not yet."

He sighed and let her play with him for a while. "Wasn't what I intended, but absolutely no complaint."

She made a pleased sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt, and her lips grazed along his throat and wandered up to find his. She rolled, taking him over on his back, slid right on over and settled astride him, her fingers still keeping his erection happy and hard while she positioned herself. As she settled down over him, he placed his hand to receive her and pinned her clit between thumb and forefinger on the second try. They were both slippery as hell, but as expected she was still quite aroused and it was easy to find.

Deanna said something untranslatable and jerked, then twisted her hips, moving into his attempt at a firm grip on her. Fortunate that the lights were still on so he could see her twitch and moan, breasts swinging, her fingers gripping his hips and then his arms as she tried to find a very happy place. He kept at it with thumb and two fingers and caught a nipple in his mouth, quickly discovering that she wanted to be bitten and grinned while she composed her own symphony of moans and wails.

When he'd had both breasts in turn she somehow bent and kissed him, nipping lips and smothering him wetly, panting, all the while grinding away at his hand and riding him in a slight left to right hook, repeatedly hitting what must be a very good spot for her.  He ran his other hand up her thigh and kneaded her left cheek, then applied pressure, moving her harder and faster. She gasped and snapped straight up, bending backward slightly, breaking the rhythm, but grabbed his upper arms again and renewed her efforts.

"Do it," he snapped, again hoarse and dry-mouthed. She changed direction and he felt her tighten and release, not yet an orgasm. "Do it!"

She slowed down then sat poised on him, her buttocks tight and solid against his thighs. Her knees slid a few centimeters wider. Wet, flushed, still pushing against his fingers in tiny pulses as if she couldn't help it.

"What if I don't?" she whispered, tipping her head backward so her hair would fall back from her face.

"You tell me. How should I punish you?"

"Is it punishment if I choose?" Her hips tilted forward, clamping her down on his poor penis like a vise.

"I think," he began, then imagined a sequence that excited him to the point that his hips began to convulse all on their own, pushing up against her. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in surprise, then smiled in delight.

"Do that. Please."

He grabbed her hips, pulling out and quickly shifting them around -- he wasn't particularly gentle pushing her toward the head of the bed but shoved a pillow in to cushion her body, not caring about the rain of books tumbling to the floor from the shelf. Pulling her arms back, he molded her hands to the edge of the headboard, stuffed another pillow in front of her hips, and rose on his knees to shove her forward.

"Yes! Yes!" She whimpered as he shoved into her.

"You've been very bad, teasing me that way," he whispered, bending over her, tickling her back with the hair on his chest.

"Yes," she said brokenly.

"Do you deserve a fuck?"

Her head twisted to the left and she looked at him out of her wild left eye, mouth open. "No, no, I don't -- please -- "

"You want one, don't you?" His hand clenched around her right buttock. "You want a good fuck?"

"I want -- yes -- please -- " She tried to push back and he drew back his hand, landing a firm, open-handed slap squarely on her buttock and thigh.

"You will be quiet. Be quiet and I'll keep fucking. Make a noise and I'll stop and spank you again. If you move, I'm going to tie you down." He leaned and rested his nose against her cheek, whispering. "If you want me to stop, call a red alert."

"Yes, oh yes, yes," she whispered, trembling, her entire body tense and waiting.

Nudging her knees wider, he pushed the rest of the way in, placed a hand on her back, put the other around her left leg, and began to grunt and thrust roughly. After a few of those he pushed his hand under her and pinched her nipple, testing her. She muffled her response in the pillow and stayed still, beyond the trembling of the muscles in her legs and buttocks. All right, then.

Another few thrusts and he found a good rhythm, slapping thigh to thigh, gripping her shoulders lightly at first but slowly tightening down and leaning forward slightly. He thought he had about the right angle and she proved it by gasping. As he withdrew entirely a disappointed whimper escaped her.

"I warned you," he said, taking a few seconds to appreciate the smooth curve of her, like a flower with the lovely little pulsating engorged center waiting for him. She smelled of musky, wet sex and he wanted to taste, fondle, tease that dripping, swollen vulva she presented in hopes of further penetration, but -- a spanking.

The first fleshy smack made her whimper. The second she endured silently, the third, and then he covered her again, sliding in slowly, waiting for her to lose control, reaching full penetration with a shove and grabbing the edges of the shelf.

This round she let him pound away, rattling the headboard, shoving her into the pillows. He almost lost himself in it, almost, but he held on and kept his head until she whimpered again and pulled her leg in slightly, turning her head.

Time for a new position anyway. He pulled her off the headboard and laid her on the bed with her feet on the shelf, had to go get a long sleeved shirt from the closet, paused to rummage in a drawer just inside the bathroom door, and returned to find her as he'd left her, her chest still heaving as she panted and watched him with burning eyes.

He kneeled between her legs and moved forward to tie her wrists together with the shirt. It wasn't a restrictive bond, but it didn't have to be. He felt the tip of his penis dragging along her skin and heard her breath hitch. Planting his fists on either side of her, he looked her in the eye then kissed her thoroughly. Then whispered as he hovered nose to nose.

"You're going to leave your hands tied. If they come untied, I'm going to put on the blindfold."

Again, her eyes widened.

"You didn't expect this, did you?"

Unsure of what he would do, she shook her head.

"Was there something else you would rather do?"

Deanna's body quivered in a brief shimmying twist, and stilled. "No," she whispered.

"Still want a good fuck?"

She exhaled raggedly and nodded, eager.

Rising on his knees, he began to masturbate with a practiced hand. She watched, clearly shocked,  and after a moment he noticed the slight movement as she clenched herself in a futile attempt to find the stimulation he wasn't giving her without disobeying. He picked up the vibrator he'd gotten and without preamble pushed it into her, thumbing the pressure switch.

Her knees bounced off him as she inadvertently tensed, setting her feet hard against the headboard. "I can forgive that," he said. "If you bring your hands down here."

With her arms straight it placed them low on her belly. Picard leaned forward, balanced on his left elbow, and placed his penis, still wet from his earlier efforts, in her fingers. "Reciprocation," he ordered, moving the vibrator out slightly. It made a wet noise against her, and he found her clit again with his thumb. "You will now be able to make noise, to convince me that you really want to continue."

Her hands closed on him tightly as she inched downward slightly. "Harder," she blurted.

It took a little more effort to maneuver the vibrator while thrusting into her hands as she pushed her palms along and back, along and back. "Harder," she moaned, then, "oh, oh, harder -- Jean-Luc, please -- "

"You want more? I can't tell!" Angling his balancing arm slightly put her jostling breast within finger's reach. He ran that thumb around her nipple while his fingers and the vibrator slid in, twisted, dragged slowly out along the vaginal wall. The next insertion, she felt tighter; he flicked the nipple with his thumbnail.

"Need," she cried. "Please -- not the -- Jean-Luc! I need you!" Her hands were losing coordination and trying to move him away and down. It wasn't quite a code word, but he wasn't sure of her, this was still too new, so he capitulated, withdrawing the vibrator and tossing it aside, pulling the shirt from her wrists, moving into her arms.

This time, her touch wasn't demanding at all, just welcoming. Her legs went round his waist, her body rose to meet him as they kissed. He kept everything slow and gentle, fondling her breasts and caressing her body, kissing her neck and face, until she came again, rising and falling with a long sigh. And then he stayed with her in a comfortable tangle of limbs, dragging the blanket over both of them to keep her warm.

Deanna watched him through her lashes, smiling, and this time with the sated bliss one would expect.

"You don't look relaxed enough," he murmured. "I think you need a bath."

\----------------------

The alarm that woke him every morning went off, and Picard sat up to find himself alone.

He swung his feet out of bed, which he'd made with fresh sheets somewhere between washing each other in a hot bath and eating dinner and finally settling down to sleep. There hadn't been a lot of talking, really. She hadn't seemed unduly worried -- sated, calm, occasionally kissing or embracing him in a blissful sort of way, even spooning with him as she fell asleep. Nothing to indicate she had in any way intended to go anywhere anytime soon.

Well, second thoughts happened sometimes. He pulled on a pair of shorts and shirt, thinking about heading to the gym early.

Strolling out of the bedroom, he tossed off the order for the usual plate of pastry and pot of coffee, belatedly realizing Beverly wouldn't be there. As he reached the replicator a hand swept in to get the coffee pot.

"Good morning," Deanna said, kissing him on the cheek before taking the pot to the table.

He raised an eyebrow and picked up the plate. "That robe is a little big for you, isn't it?" His robe, actually, and while it wasn't necessarily too long, it clearly had more room in the shoulders than she needed and tended to slide off, exposing the tops of her breasts.

"You thought I wasn't here." She curled her legs beneath her in the chair and reached for a scone as the plate landed on the table in front of her. He sat at her left, put the cups down, and poured strong black coffee in each.

"You weren't in bed."

She paused in the act of chewing, broke off another piece of scone, tucked it in her mouth. "I had to contact people and reschedule appointments. _Someone_ put me on medical leave."

"Hm. I technically have today off. Do you anticipate further Phase induced sexual urges?"

Deanna picked a berry out of her scone, blushing slightly. "I don't know."

"You started whispering at me a month ago. You've been in Phase for a month." He paused, trying to sort how to phrase it. "I would have. . . except you seemed to be having a hard time approaching me, for some reason."

"It was difficult, that's true," she murmured, still not looking at him. "It was uncomfortable, and I couldn't -- I suppose it did add an edge to my feelings that -- I'm sorry, Jean-Luc."

"But it wasn't really why you feel what you feel. Would you have said anything to me about your feelings, if it hadn't pushed you a little?"

She shrugged, one side of the robe falling down, exposing a nipple. She didn't move to cover it.

"Well, if that was the only reason you said anything, I owe Betazoid biology for the favor."

Deanna gave him a sidelong stare of disbelief. "Really?"

"Okay. Look." He leaned forward, arm on the table, reaching for her; she gave him her hand without pause. "I can tell you don't think I'm really interested in long term. You can tell I keep assuming you've already left. If we discard that flawed thinking -- which clearly it is, otherwise why are you sitting here flashing me a nipple and drinking my coffee, and why did I spend a lot of energy and time romping around like a twenty-five-year-old with you when a good straight fuck will do, because it was more about scratching an itch than anything resembling a real medical crisis -- if the bad assumption goes out the window, what are we left with?"

"Oh, hell," she murmured. "You've had too much therapy. Flawed thinking?"

"I was tempted to make bingo cards. Cognitive behavioral, Freudian terms, feeling words, and one where every square has the words 'I understand' in it."

"Is that why this is so appealing?" she said faintly. "Put a stop to therapy?"

Taking advantage of the hand he was holding, he pulled her across into his lap, which had the unintended effect of her breast landing against his shoulder. He tugged the robe up over it and steadied her with his arm around her waist and holding her thigh.

"I don't want to leave. But I don't want to wear out my welcome, either." She relaxed somewhat.

"I don't want you to leave. I don't have any agenda." He paused, appreciating her body weight and warmth for a moment. "I enjoy your company. And I suspect that if either of us wanted space, for whatever reason or duration, it would be given without question."

"But -- " She sighed, and he felt the tip of her nose and forehead against his face.

"Aren't you done with men who fall in love with you and leave, or fall out of love, or turn out to be inappropriate for some reason?"

Was she holding her breath? She'd tensed and the fingers that had been playing with the collar of his shirt went still.

"What if you found one who just loved you?"

The trickle of warm air along his cheek assured him she wouldn't pass out and fall. She must be intentionally slowing her breathing. "Do you?"

"I'm assuming you are asking to find out if I am aware of my feelings?"

Deanna slid off and stepped away from him. "No."

"You don't know that I love you?" he said faintly, feeling vaguely like an ass.

"You are attracted to me, you feel -- have been feeling intense lust."

"And I have always had a great deal of respect for you, as an officer and a friend. I've been afraid of you, angry at you, and frustrated by you. I've watched you suffer and wished I could just fix it, like those stereotypical males who think anything should be within their ability to fix. I've even argued with you but I'll be damned if I can remember winning even once. I've lost hands of poker to you, laughed with you and at you, and tried very hard not to shatter your image of me as a heroic starship captain who's in complete control of himself and the situation around him."

Somewhere in the middle of it she half-turned and stared at him with a faint smile that was less faint by the end. "You pretend that you do."

"And you see how I failed to anticipate your seeing through my paper-thin facade, and yet, I also fail to be nervous about that, because you've known that from the beginning, obviously, yet haven't shattered anyone else's image of me."

She now grinned, and the dimple reappeared. "Beverly thinks you act like an ass sometimes."

"And I trust her as a friend to keep that to herself. Mostly. But I trust you more, obviously, since you know far more damaging things about me than she does. And it doesn't even make me anxious about telling you more."

"So you suggest that these things, familiarity, trust and respect, should be enough for me, and I should be content with that?"

"Not at all." He stood up, picking up his coffee. "I'm suggesting that should be adequate at the outset of a relationship. Love does not always start with a bang. Sometimes it already exists, and all it needs is room to grow."

She completed the turn and reached for her own cup. "If. . . last night was not a bang, what was it?"

"What was it to you?"

Deanna glanced down at her coffee. The words didn't seem to want to form in her mouth; she chewed on her lower lip.

"I don't do farewell sex," he rumbled. "It's always hello. And a few times it was an invitation, but -- some don't recognize open doors, some don't want to take them because they don't want to feel trapped behind them. But they don't always recognize that I'm perfectly willing to open the door and let them out again, if it's what they really want."

She held the coffee in both hands, frowned, contemplated, and this time he let the silence stretch out for a while. Sidestepping to the table, she returned to her chair and this time pulled up the robe when it slid off her shoulders again.

"I always wondered if it wasn't so much that people fall out of love, as it is they become bored with the other person," he said.

Deanna smiled a little at it. "I suppose, then, you are fortunate that you aren't boring."

"Since you're the only one who's ever said that I have to assume you're in love with me." He managed to temper the wicked smile into something he hoped was merely mischievous.

She coughed, dropping the cup a few inches to the table and sloshing a little coffee out. "And extremely susceptible to your charms," she said with a sigh.

"Yet you hesitate, when I offer you. . . ." Her dark eyes met his and he temporarily lost the words. "You're absolutely certain that I am not in love with you?"

"Are you certain you're not in love with the idea of being in love?"

"I did not have sex with an idea last night." He sighed, feeling the warmth and desire echo through him and the beginning of another goodbye he didn't want. "I wanted to spend the day with you. I'm not up to another round of sex, but I might have been able to make love. But that wasn't really the priority, either. Stable relationships aren't based on sex, and sex isn't necessarily a part of a relationship, but I thought we were fairly evenly matched for both aspects of an intimate relationship. I'm sorry you don't agree."

"I didn't say -- " She shook her head, frowning again.

"You are welcome to whatever you want of me, for as long as you want it." He stood up, ran hand over his head, sighed. "I'll just be. . . I think I'll just go back to bed."

He nearly made it, sitting on the edge of the mattress instead, mulling over loss and the absurdity of hope. Particularly when it was his hope, or when it involved the possibility of having someone warm and soft and hard-edged -- versatile, he supposed would be the word -- to explore what was left of his life with.

When the door opened, he held his breath and waited, unmoving.

She came to stand in front of him, her bare feet under his nose, so he could see she'd painted her perfect little toenails just the same shade of red as his uniform. His robe slid soundlessly into a pile on the floor around her.

"Is it too late?"

He tilted his head and looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. Ignoring the view straight ahead of him, as hard as it was. Bruising from his fingers showed on her thigh and hips, and he could faintly smell her. . . . "For which?"

"Out of the options presented, I'd like the first and second." Deanna pivoted and sat with him.

"First. . . ?"

"You said you wanted to spend the day with me, sex wasn't an option, and you would be open to making love. That left me with two options, correct?"

He grinned at her, suddenly feeling an upswing of energy and hope. It wavered somewhat as he thought about it, though. "Yes. Of course. Anywhere you had in mind? I'm sure there's a holodeck free, or at least one I can commandeer."

"You once invited me to go riding with you. Perhaps we could do that."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Yes, we could."

"What. . . why did you shake your head?"

"I'm just wondering if it would be better to save riding for when I'm -- we're not sore."

Deanna's eyes lit up again when she smiled, reassuring him. "Then we can do that later, and go have a picnic today. There's a beach on Risa I'd like to show you."

Future plans made the uncertainty dissolve. Somewhat. "A nude beach?"

"A very private one, so if we want, yes. But I'll put something on to get to the holodeck." She headed out to replicate something. He went to the closet for a pair of pants and shoes.

She came up behind him while he stepped into the other shoe, and as he turned around she embraced him. So he returned it, basked in it, and sighed. She'd put on some form-fitting pants, a shirt, and a jacket -- prepared for anything.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's hard for me to tell sometimes when I have such intense feelings myself."

"Just don't let it happen again."

She took his hand as she withdrew and led him toward the door. "Or you'll get out the blindfold?"

"I don't know. Are you interested in that sort of thing, when you're not in Phase?"

Just shy of the exit, she stopped and looked at the floor again. "Truthfully, there isn't much to the Phase, for me. I'm not really -- "

"Stop," he interrupted gently. "I don't care. It never mattered to me in the first place, except that it supposedly had an impact on you. Frankly, if last night is any indication, having your sex drive quadruple would probably kill me within a week."

The smile returned. "I'll just remember to pace myself, then. Because it did increase somewhat. Just not that much."

That invited further comment, but she took a step toward the door, which opened, surprising Beverly as she reached for the annunciator -- she stumbled a few steps backward. "Oh!"

"We're on our way to the holodeck," Picard announced. "She seems quite all right, if that's why you're here."

"And how are you?" It was almost a pitch-perfect professional question, except that Beverly's quick glances over his shoulder into the room beyond and the nervous little smile said something else was afoot.

"He feels fine," Deanna said, serene as a nun as she stepped around him and headed for the lift.

"Better than fine," he muttered, leaning forward to nudge Beverly with an elbow. "Good advice as usual. Thank you for all your help, Doctor."

"But you said -- " Beverly watched him go, stunned. He waved and jogged to catch up with Deanna, still strolling away from them down the corridor.

In the lift, he smiled at her. She had a calculating look in her eye. "Was she thinking one of us might need medical attention?"

"I. . . ."

"So the real reason you and Beverly never -- she doesn't appreciate your. . . tastes."

"One reason, perhaps."

Again, uncertainty glimmered in her eyes. "It wasn't -- I didn't tell you the real reason Worf couldn't -- he didn't want to hurt me. Not even -- I think when I asked him to try something outside his comfort zone, it started to erode his desire for me. The other thing we talked about, it was never comfortable for him, but it became intolerable after -- "

"Ah," Picard responded, hoping to convey understanding with the least discussion of it. "I see."

The lift hummed on for a few seconds with both of them studying each other's shoes.

"It's not going to be a problem for you?" she asked softly.

"I'd bet we can get our hands on some inhibitor. And that's not always necessary, either. I'm more interested in finding out what you really want -- I'd imagine it's easy to ride along with whatever your partner finds exciting than to explore things you actually enjoy." He paused. "Did you know what I was going to do? Did you read it as I imagined it."

"No. I'm not so telepathic as that -- unless I practice, like with mother -- but I didn't mind what you did." She sidled over until their arms brushed against each other. "I enjoyed it. It wasn't just you. It was intense enough that -- I really wasn't sensing you that much, beyond a certain point."

"So very intense experiences are enough to block out external stimuli. Interesting."

"I appreciate that you trusted me enough to do it, Jean-Luc. Though it wasn't quite as -- it wasn't as intense as it could have been, it surprised me that you would try with me, the first time we. . . ."

"But you knew I -- you've known for a long time, ever since you helped me through the trauma of being tortured by Gul Madred. We had some very open conversations about it. It was the only reason -- I knew you would let me know it wasn't comfortable for you, if that were the case." He glanced at her; she still had her eyes on the floor. "You've never said anything about enjoying that sort of thing."

"Not exactly going to come up in casual conversation, is it?

The lift stopped and opened. They walked together for the nearest holodeck, quiet until they were inside on the grid with the door closed behind them. She glanced at him. "Computer, run program Troi delta four."

The beach materialized around them. Immediately his shoes sank a little in the dry white sand. He took her hand. "I didn't tell you the whole truth, either."

"When was that?"

"Just a bit ago, when you asked why I shook my head. I merely told you one truth, so you would believe me."

She laughed at it. "Deceiving an empath with the truth? What was the real answer, then?"

"The time I asked you to go riding with me was my attempt to get your attention. I've always been open to the possibility."

Deanna sighed, looked at the water, pulled him toward it. "I suspected that was what you were trying to do. But you still needed a counselor, then. I couldn't."

"And now I need someone else."

She hesitated, turning to face him, the onshore breeze blowing her hair forward around her face. "You need. . . ."

"You're not my counselor now. And you need me, as well."

"Yes," she said, smiling again. She pulled a dermal regenerator out of her pocket. "Even if we don't go riding, perhaps you should use this?"

"Sensing my pain? It's not even that bad -- Where did you -- " He stopped, realizing she had to have been in his drawer, in the bathroom.

"Why didn't you use the cuffs last night?" She took the padded cuffs out of her other jacket pocket. Except, they weren't his -- the ones she held were black. He was fairly certain the padding in his set was red.

He stared at her with a growing feeling of having been completely taken in by a very clever and elaborate scheme. Once again, he couldn't seem to move. Finally he managed to loosen his tongue. "This was all a game, wasn't it? Every step of the way, from the first time you whispered to me, on that away mission." And, another shock, as all the various interactions and conversations replayed themselves. The timing -- each time Will or Beverly had come into play, he'd been out of the room, giving her a chance to call them in. How devious she had been. "You enlisted Will and Beverly. Didn't you?"

"Bev nearly ruined it, when she found out I was actually in Phase. I had to convince her it wasn't such a problem as she thought." Deanna, the one he remembered, the one he had seen at parties and receptions for years, sly and confident and very secure in her own sexuality, smiled cannily and twirled the cuffs.

"And you do have complete control over your abilities," he murmured, thinking about the possibilities.

"Yes."

"And -- you knew exactly how to get me to -- you were in control of me. Had me exactly where you wanted me, wanting to help you -- Were any of the things you said actually true?"

"Some of it." Her lascivious smile, the cunning and pleasure at her achievement, was something he had never seen in her before. And his body had gone rigid with anticipation at the thought of what he might be able to do with her next.

"Brilliant," he gasped. 

"Do I have your attention yet?"

"Oh, yes." He grinned, heart racing -- no, soaring. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I was completely taken in."

"Would you like to prepare for the next game?" She wagged the regenerator in front of his nose.

Sighing, he started to unfasten his pants. "I think I'm in love."

The stars in Deanna's eyes did not diminish, this time. "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Jean-Luc's preferences in this version of him actually have a canon precedent - in the episode "Measure of a Man" he talks to a former lover about wanting to break a chair on her - hyperbole, or reality? 
> 
> And, the episode referred to in which the captain invites Troi to join him in riding on the holodeck was actually the show's writers setting up a potential relationship between Troi and Picard - but that idea was never followed up on.


End file.
